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A LITTLE  BOOK  FOR 
JOHN  O’MAHONY’S  FRIENDS 


“For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  bis  prime, 
Young  Lycidas,  and  bath  not  left  his  peer 


A LITTLE  BOOK  FOR 
JOHN  O’MAHON  Y’S 
FRIENDS  BY  KATHARINE 
TYNAN  ___  > 


PRINTED  FOR  THOMAS  B MOSHER 
AND  PUBLISHED  BY  HIM  AT 
XLV  EXCHANGE  STREET 
PORTLAND  MAINE  MDCCCCIX 


CMEaL  A (j 


FOREWORD 


15590 


lt  By  Killarney’s  lakes  and  fells.” 


FOREWORD 

wo  little  pam- 
phlets lie  before 
us , one  of  which 
i we  take  the  un- 
asked liberty  of 
reprinting  in  the  belief  that 
what  was  meant  for  a few 
personal  friends  will  be  found 
on  perusal  acceptable  to  many 
another  in  whose  heart  ling- 
ers the  recollection  of  some  life 
once  very  near  and  dear  that 
has  now  passed  into  the  great 
silence . 

It  is  no  violation  of  confi- 
dence reposed  in  us  to  say 
that  this  brilliant  young  bar- 


VIII 

FOREWORD 

r is  ter,  John  O’Mahony , 
whose  untimely  death  took 
place  during  November,  iQOj, 
was  a brother-indaw  of  Mrs . 
Tynan- H inks  on . 

The  four  poems  appended 
by  Mrs . Hinkson  to  her  brief 
memorial  are , or  so  they  seem 
to  us,  among  the  truest  and 
sweetest  of  her  later  lyrics . 

It  is  the  simple,  unaffected 
tenderness  of  this  little  book 
of  memories  so  genumely  Cel- 
tic, and  yet  so  universally  hu- 
man, that  constitutes  its  note 
of  distinction  and  makes  it 
difficult  to  find  or  even  seek  its 
like  elsewhere . We  fail  to 

discover  in  the  prose  or  verse 
of  Mr . Yeats  for  example 
just  this  unadorned,  natural 
pathos . 

FOREWORD 

IX 

What  was  said  so  beauti- 
fully once  and  forever  of  Ar- 
temus  Ward  by  Mr . fames 
Rhoades  some  forty  years  ago, 
may  well  be  recalled  and  re- 
affirmed of  fohn  O’  Mahony 
in  this  foreword  of  ours  to  A 
Little  Book  for  His  Friends. 

Is  he  gone  to  a land  of  no  laughter  — 

This  man  that  made  mirth  for  us  all  ? 
Proves  death  but  a silence  hereafter, 

Where  the  echoes  of  earth  cannot  fall  ? 
Once  closed,  have  the  lips  no  more  duty, 

No  more  pleasure  the  exquisite  ears  ? 

Has  the  heart  done  overflowing  with  beauty , 
As  the  eyes  have  with  tears  ? 

For  the  man  in  our  heart  lingered  after , 
When  the  merriment  died  from  our  ears, 
A nd  those  who  were  loudest  in  laughter 
Are  silent  in  tears. 

T.  B.  M. 

Sit  closer , friends , around  the  board  ! 
Death  grants  us  yet  a little  time. 


Companion  of  our  nights  of  mirth , 

Where  all  were  merry  who  were  wise  ; 
Does  Death  quite  understand  your  worth, 
And  know  the  value  of  his  prize  ? 

I doubt  me  if  he  comprehends  — 

He  knows  no  friends. 

Again  a parting  sail  we  see  ; 

A nother  boat  has  left  the  shore. 

A kinder  soul  on  board  has  she 
Than  ever  left  the  land  before. 

And  as  her  outward  course  she  bends , 

Sit  closer,  friends  ! 


ARTHUR  MACY. 


A LITTLE  BOOK  FOR 
JOHN  O’MAHONY’S  FRIENDS 


A LITTLE  BOOK  FOR 
JOHN  O’MAHONY’S 
FRIENDS 

A MEMORY 

used  to  say  that 
Wiw  Stevenson  should 
§2^|y^  have  known  him  to 
give  him  immortality  in  a 
book.  He  was  a true  Steven- 
son character.  Indeed,  in  a 
manner  of  speaking  he  was 
a brother  of  Stevenson. 

Valiant  in  velvet , light  in 
ragged  luck . 

The  sestet  might  have  been 
written  of  him  down  to  the 

4 

A LITTLE  BOOK  FOR 

. . . something  of  the  Shorter 
Catechist, 

for  he  was  oddly,  sincerely 
pious,  and  one  never  could 
be  sure  of  the  moment  when 
he  might  not  read  you  a sud- 
den homily,  although  h i s 
wildness  drove  a coach  and 
four  through  the  conventional 
laws.  Wild  — he  was  wild  ; 
wild  as  the  wind  that  comes 
over  the  mountains,  and,  like 
that,  sparkling  and  full  of 
refreshment.  He  had  the 
wild,  dark  eye  of  an  Arab 
horse,  an  eye  that  in  houses 
and  amid  towns  meditated 
flight.  You  had  a note  of 
warning  when,  suddenly  fur- 
tive, his  eye  was  turned  on 
you  that  at  any  moment  he 
might  be  off  like  the  wind. 

JOHN  O’MAHONY’s  FRIENDS 

s 

He  loved  the  wild  ones  of 
the  world  like  himself.  I 
really  think  in  his  heart  of 
hearts  he  had  rather  be  a 
jolly  tramp  than  the  brilliant 
and  successful  lawyer  Fate 
forced  him  to  be.  Yes,  Fate 
forced  her  gifts  on  him  ; made 
him  successful ; more,  made 
him  hard-working,  gave  him 
the  instant  audience  his  soul 
loved,  gave  him  a season  or 
two  of  success  rapid  beyond 
men’s  experience — the  excite- 
ment, the  applause,  the 
laughter  which  wore  out  his 
eager  heart. 

I believe  if  he  had  lived  in 
the  eighteenth  century  he 
would  have  chosen  to  be  a 
highwayman  — one  like  his 
favourite  hero,  “Bold  Bren- 

6 

A LITTLE  BOOK  FOR 

nan  of  the  Moor,”  who  was 
also  an  outlaw  for  his  coun- 
try’s sake,  and  robbed  the 
rich  to  give  to  the  poor.  I 
can  hear  him  now  corning 
home  at  night  trolling  a verse 
of  the  ballad  by  which  Bren- 
nan is  enshrined  for  ever  in 
the  hearts  of  the  country 
people.  It  was  a common 
thing  for  him  to  come  home 
in  the  small  hours.  Every- 
one loved  him  and  would  fain 
hold  him  of  their  company, 
and  he  was  not  one  to  break 
away  from  friendly  detaining 
hands.  The  night  might  be 
wild  and  wet,  cold  and  snow- 
ing, as  it  might  be  balmy  and 
set  with  stars.  To  him  all 
weather  came  alike.  He  was 
initiate  in  the  things  of  Na- 

JOHN  O’MAHONY’S  FRIENDS 

7 

ture,  and  the  wind  and  the 
rain  were  his  brothers.  You 
would  hear  him  a long  way 
off  trolling  his  song.  It 
might  be  “The  White  Cock- 
ade,” as  it  often  was : 

King  Charles  is  King  James’s  son, 
And  from  a royal  race  is  sprung, 
Then  up  with  the  shout  and  out 
with  the  blade, 

And  viva  la ! the  White  Cockade. 

Or  it  might  be  “Brennan 
on  the  Moor  : ” 

’Tis  of  a gallant  highwayman 
A story  I will  tell. 

His  name  was  Billy  Brennan, 
In  Ireland  he  did  dwell. 

All  on  the  Kilworth  mountain 
He  runned  his  wild  career, 
And  many  a goodly  gentleman 
Before  him  shook  with  fear. 

8 

A LITTLE  BOOK  FOR 

Chorus: 

Brennan  on  the  Moor,  boys, 
Brennan  on  the  Moor, 

Bold  and  undaunted  stood 
Young  Brennan  on  the  Moor. 

One  day,  as  Billy  Brennan 

From  the  mountains  came  down, 
He  met  the  Mayor  of  Limerick 
One  mile  outside  the  town. 

The  Mayor  he  knew  his  features, 

“ Young  man,  I think,”  says  he, 
“ Your  name  is  Willie  Brennan: 
You  must  come  along  with  me.” 

Now  Brennan’s  wife  had  gone  to 
town 

Provisions  for  to  buy, 

And  as  she  saw  her  Willie  dear 
She  began  to  wail  and  cry. 

“ Give  me,”  says  he,  “ that  ten- 
penny,” 

And  as  the  words  he  spoke 
She  handed  him  a blunderbuss 
From  underneath  her  cloak. 

JOHN  O’MAHONY’S  FRIENDS 

9 

Now  Brennan  with  that  blunder- 
buss 

A tale  he  did  unfold, 

He  made  the  Mayor  of  Limerick 
To  yield  him  up  his  gold; 

Five  hundred  pounds  in  silver 
He  took  from  off  him  there, 
And  with  his  horse  and  saddle 
To  the  mountains  did  repair. 

And  so  on  in  the  intermin- 
able rhymed  history  of  him 
who,  like  Robin  Hood : 

A brace  of  loaded  pistols 
He  carried  night  and  day. 

He  never  robbed  a poor  man 
Upon  the  King’s  highway; 

But  what  he  took  from  off  the  rich, 
Like  Turpin  and  Black  Bess, 
He  did  divide  it  to  assist 
Poor  widows  in  distress. 

Or  it  might  be  a “ Come- 
all-ye,”  describing  the  latest 

IO 

A LITTLE  BOOK  FOR 

execution,  sung  in  fairs  and 
sold  as  a broad-sheet  by  the 
ballad-singers.  He  would 
come  in  possibly  — nay, 
rather  oftener  than  not  — 
soaked  through  in  that  land 
of  mild,  perpetual  rain,  but 
at  peace  with  the  elements 
and  all  the  world.  And  see- 
ing his  dear  face  you  forgave 
him  straightway  the  dinner 
that  waited  in  vain,  the  long 
evening  of  expectation,  with 
the  blank  of  his  absence  like 
a sore  at  the  heart  of  it,  the 
late  hour,  the  broken  slum- 
ber. Always  he  was  worth 
waiting  for,  even  into  the 
small  hours.  He  might  have 
set  your  orderly  life  all  askew, 
but  here  he  was  at  last,  lov- 
ing and  giving,  carrying  very 

JOHN  O’MAHONY’S  FRIENDS 

1 1 

often  material  gifts,  always 
bubbling  over  with  jests  and 
stories,  ready  to  sit  down  and 
unpack  the  budget  of  delight- 
ful things,  although  he  was 
wet  through  and  you  were  in 
your  dressing-gown  and  con- 
scious of  the  extinguished 
fire.  He  would  button-hole 
you  to  your  bedroom  door 
with  the  stories  which  were 
to  colour  your  dreams  with 
the  gold  of  laughter.  And 
of  course  everything  was  for- 
given. You  had  but  to  lay 
eyes  on  him  to  forgive  him. 

His  humour  was  usually 
humane.  Occasionally  it  was 
impish,  elfish,  a marsh-fire 
which  those  it  played  over 
forgot  as  soon  as  it  had  fled 

12 

A LITTLE  BOOK  FOR 

elsewhere.  At  its  most  mis- 
chievous it  left  no  scar.  You 
laughed  with  him  when  he 
was  merry  at  your  expense. 
There  was  never  the  rancour 
behind  the  jibes  that  desired 
to  push  the  point  home. 
There  was  something  imper- 
sonal, aloof,  in  his  quips  and 
cranks.  Among  the  most 
touchy  people  in  the  world 
he  was  a chartered  mocker. 

I have  said  he  was  wild, 
wild  as  the  west  wind  that ’s 
mild  and  kind.  Little  hands 
one  did  not  see  plucked  at 
him  ; little  voices  one  did  not 
hear,  voices  of  the  winds  and 
waters,  were  incessantly  call- 
ing him  out  from  civilisation, 
to  leave  the  dull  world  behind 
and  come  out  and  be  free. 

JOHN  O’MAHONY’S  FRIENDS 

i3 

Once  it  was  a brook  sing- 
ing over  its  golden  bed, 
brown  as  amber,  yellow  gold 
in  its  high  lights.  We  leant 
over  a bridge  on  the  country 
road  looking  down  into  its 
depths.  He  glanced  back  at 
the  mountains  from  which  it 
came,  and  there  was  an  ache 
of  longing  in  his  voice. 

“ I never  saw  a little 
stream  yet,”  he  said,  “ that  I 
didn’t  want  to  track  it  to  its 
source.  It’ll  have  bubbled 
up  maybe  between  the  fronds 
of  a hart’s  tongue  fern  and 
made  a little  pool.  And  then 
maybe  it  slipped  over  a rock 
and  fell  in  a golden  fringe. 
Do  you  remember  the 
streams  at  Killarney  falling 
over  the  rocks  that  edge  the 

14 

A LITTLE  BOOK  FOR 

roads  ? And  after  that  it  ’ll 
have  made  a channel  for  it- 
self, and  gone  singing  down 
the  dark  glens  and  foaming 
about  the  boulders.  It ’s  a 
trout  stream.  If  you  watched 
it  long  enough  up  there 
you ’d  see  the  fin  of  a trout 
where  he  was  skulking  in  the 
pools.  I wonder  at  all  how 
the  first  trout  came  in  it.” 

Then  he  was  moved  to  tell 
me  the  story  of  the  Molaga 
trout.  He  was  full  of  folk- 
lore, and  ever  ready  to  impart 
it.  His  knowledge  made  the 
very  stones  live. 

“ Did  you  ever  hear  of  St. 
Molaga  ? It  was  he  brought 
the  honey-bees  into  Ireland. 
There  is  a well  he  blessed  in 
County  Cork.  There  was  a 

JOHN  O’MAHONY’S  FRIENDS 

*5 

little  silver  trout  used  to  swim 
round  and  round  in  it,  and 
he  too  was  blessed  and  called 
St.  Molaga’s  trout.  The 
waters  possessed  the  power 
of  healing,  but  it  was  unlaw- 
ful to  use  it  for  any  culinary 
purpose,  and  it  couldn’t  be 
got  to  boil.  To  this  day 
they  say  in  the  County  Cork 
if  a kettle  is  long  a-boiling : 
4 It  must  have  St.  Molaga’s 
trout  in  it.’  ” 

I got  him  to  write  a deli- 
cious piece  of  folk-lore, 
“ The  Trencher-man  and  the 
Molaga  Trout,”  which  ap- 
peared in  The  Speaker . It 
was  to  have  been  the  first  of 
many.  He  was  in  love  with 
the  idea  of  making  a book  of 
these  stories,  racy  and  de- 

i6 

A LITTLE  BOOK  FOR 

lightfully  humorous  and  sim- 
ple, gathered  from  the  lips 
of  the  old  peasants  with 
whom  he  found  it  so  easy  to 
make  friends. 

“ I Jd  like  it  to  appear  in 
America,”  he  said.  “ I ’d 
love  to  think  of  the  old  people 
reading  it  that  emigrated  out 
there.” 

But  the  book  never  got 
further  than  the  second  story, 
which  also  appeared  in  The 
Speaker,  1 think.  He  was 
no  great  one  for  making 
books.  He  needed  the  in- 
stant audience  of  the  eyes 
and  the  lips  and  the  throats, 
that  looked  and  smiled  and 
roared  their  applause  at  him. 

That  day  at  the  brookside 
he  turned  away  as  one  who 

JOHN  o’mAHONY’S  FRIENDS 

x7 

shoulders  his  burden  again 
regretfully.  “ I ought  to  have 
been  at  the  Four  Courts  half 
an  hour  ago,”  he  said  ; “ I ’ve 
a big  case  to  make  up.”  It 
was  the  case  that  made  his 
reputation,  that  set  him  on 
that  brilliant  way  of  easy  yet 
strenuous  effort  which  com- 
bined with  the  excitement 
and  the  applause  he  loved  to 
break  his  heart. 

Another  time  we  met  a 
stalwart  gipsy  man,  a “tink- 
er,” as  they  call  them  in 
Ireland,  a big,  bullet-headed 
fellow  with  a great  shock  of 
grizzled  curls  and  a face 
burnt  almost  black  by  the 
sun.  There  was  some  sug- 
gestion of  the  Wine-God  in 
his  looks, ‘the  Wine-God  dis- 

i8 

A LITTLE  BOOK  FOR 

guised  for  amorous  adven- 
tures perhaps.  We  trudged 
the  length  of  a long  moun- 
tain road  with  him.  The 
“tinker”  was  sprung  of  a 
line  of  famous  pipers : his 
father  had  won  the  All-Ire- 
land prize  at  the  Feis.  For 
all  his  pagan  looks  the  fellow 
was  a Christian  gipsy  and 
would  receive  Christian  burial 
when  he  died,  although  the 
house  was  not  built  that 
could  harbour  him  for  long, 
nor  the  roof-tree  that  he 
would  not  feel  an  intolerable 
oppression  between  him  and 
6 the  sky. 

They  talked  of  many  things 
and  I listened.  The  tinkers 
forbears  had  fought  in  the 

JOHN  O’MAHONY’S  FRIENDS 

*9 

Rebellion  of  ’98,  on  the  right 
side,  be  sure.  Wasn’t  his 
grandfather  killed  at  Oulart 
Hollow  ? He  talked  of  “ the 
troubles,”  looking  from  side 
to  side  in  the  twilight  as 
though  “ the  troubles  ” were 
not  over  and  done  with  long 
ago,  as  though  the  bronze 
hedgerow  might  yet  conceal 
a lurking  spy  or  an  armed 
yeoman.  He  was  going  over 
the  mountains  to  Bray,  walk- 
ing. Some  time  in  the  early 
morning  he  would  be  there. 
He  had  my  companion’s  last 
half-crown  — this  was  before 
the  great  case  brought  the 
briefs  raining  upon  him  — 
and  as  he  shambled  off  with 
his  long  trotting  gait  up  the 
mountain  side,  a long,  long 

20 

A LITTLE  BOOK  FOR 

look  of  sore  desire  for  the 
freedom  of  the  night  and  the 
hills  followed  him. 

“ He  ’ll  find  a cave  in  the 
hills  to-night,”  said  the  long- 
ing voice,  “ and  he  ’ll  fill  it 
with  dead  leaves  for  a bed. 
The  stars  and  the  moon  ’ll 
be  looking  in  at  him.” 

After  we  had  gone  a little 
way  the  subject  recurred. 

“Did  you  notice,”  he 
asked,  “ the  great  walk  of 
him  from  the  hips  ? And  did 
you  see  how  his  brogues  were 
slit  down  to  give  his  foot 
freedom  in  walking  ? It 
would  be  grand  to  be  out 
with  him  on  the  hillside  to- 
night listening  to  his  stories 
and  songs.  A grand  life  for 
a man  surely.” 

JOHN  O’MAHONY’S  FRIENDS 

2 I 

Those  were  golden  days 
and  golden  walks  long  ago. 
One  never  knew  how  good 
they  were  while  they  lasted. 
Once  as  we  went  along  he 
prodded  at  a tiny  beetle  with 
his  stick. 

“ Look  at  him,  now,”  he 
said,  “ he  ’ s putting  out  the 
two  little  spurs  behind  to  de- 
fend himself.  There  isn’t 
an  old  woman  in  the  County 
Cork  that  wouldn’t  run  after 
him  and  stamp  him  out  of 
existence.  He  is  the  daire 
dhoul , the  devil’s  beetle,  and 
they  think  there ’s  a hundred 
days’  indulgence  for  killing 
him.  You  never  heard  of 
the  daire  dhoul  ? Why  surely 
you  did.  It  betrayed  our 
Lord  to  the  Jews.  He  had 

• 

22 

A LITTLE  BOOK  FOR 

• 

escaped  from  His  enemies 
and  was  out  in  the  open 
country.  As  He  passed 
through  a cornfield  the  men 
were  sowing  the  corn.  Be- 
cause of  His  passing  it  sprang 
into  golden  grain,  and  bent 
itself  into  long  avenues  to 
let  Him  pass,  closing  up  after 
Him  so  that  none  should 
know  the  way  he  had  gone. 
The  apple-boughs,  covered 
with  blossom,  bent  low  before 
Him,  and  the  blossom  ripened 
to  yellow,  golden  fruit.  The 
next  day  came  His  pursuers 
and  found  the  reapers  reap- 
ing the  corn.  ‘ Did  such  a 
man  pass  this  way  ? 9 they 
asked.  ‘ He  passed,  but 
when  the  corn  was  being 
sown,’  said  the  reapers.  Now 

JOHN  o’mAHONY’s  FRIENDS 

2 3 

they  had  gathered  a basket 
of  the  fruit  to  refresh  them, 
and  on  an  apple  there  sat  the 
daire  dhouL  He  put  up  his 
evil  little  black  head,  and 
said  in  Irish,  ‘ Inagh,  inagh ,’ 
which  means  ‘ Yesterday, 
yesterday/  That  is  why  he 
is  the  daire  dhoul , the  devil’s 
beetle,  and  accursed.” 

From  this  it  would  be  an 
easy  transition  to  Conall 
Carnach.  I can  hear  the 
soft,  wailing  Cork  brogue 
and  remember  the  very 
smells,  the  dead  leaves  and 
the  smoke  from  the  moun- 
tains where  the  heather  was 
on  fire,  of  that  autumn  day 
years  ago. 

“You  know  that  Conall 
Carnach,  the  Lord  of  Dunse- 

24 

A LITTLE  BOOK  FOR 

verick,  was  present  at  the 
Crucifixion.  No  ? Well,  all 
the  nations  of  the  earth  were 
represented  there,  and  Conall 
was  for  the  Irish.  He  was 
a famous  wrestler,  and  that 
is  how  he  came  to  leave  his 
castle  of  Dunseverick,  near 
Ballycastle,  on  the  Antrim 
coast.  He  travelled  all  over 
the  world  wrestling,  and  took 
part  in  the  gladiatorial  games 
in  Rome.  Well,  he  came  on 
to  Jerusalem,  the  very  day 
of  the  Crucifixion.  He  came 
up  with  the  crowd  just  at  the 
time  Veronica  gave  the  nap- 
kin to  our  Lord  to  dry  His 
face,  and  he  saw  Simon  help 
Him  to  carry  the  Cross. 
Every  one  noticed  his  great 
size  and  beauty  as  he  stood 

JOHN  O’MAHONY’s  FRIENDS 

25 

below  the  Cross.  While  he 
stood  there  a drop  of  our 
Lord’s  blood  fell  upon  his 
head.  That  was  the  first 
Christian  baptism  of  all  Ire- 
land. Then  Conall  saw  the 
soldiers  flinging  dice  for  the 
seamless  garment,  and  said, 
‘ Let  me  have  a throw.’  They 
agreed,  and  his  throw  of  the 
dice  won  the  prize.  But  he  re- 
fused it,  because  he  had  been 
profoundly  impressed  by  the 
august  death  he  had  wit- 
nessed. They  say  that  each 
representative  of  the  Gentile 
nations  present  that  day  was 
privileged  to  render  our  Lord 
a service.  And  Conall  Car- 
nach’s  was  — you  know  they 
say  the  Angel  rolled  away 
the  stone  from  the  mouth  of 

26 

A LITTLE  BOOK  FOR 

the  sepulchre  for  the  Resur- 
rection ; no,  then,  it  was 
Conall  Carnach  that  put  his 
great  shoulder  to  it  and  sent 
it  spinning.  He  was  the  first 
to  bring  to  Ireland  the  name 
of  Christ  and  the  story  of 
the  Crucifixion.,, 

And  then  again  it  would 
be  some  homely  saint  of  his 
own  family. 

“ Saints  ! Sure  my  own 
great-grandmother’s  uncle, 
Father  O’Brien,  was  as  great 
a saint  as  any  of  them.  We 
have  his  pyx  in  the  family 
still.  There  was  a young 
girl  at  Muskerry  dying  of  a 
decline,  and  he  was  sent  for 
to  anoint  her.  She  was  the 
only  support  of  her  old 

JOHN  O’MAHONY’S  FRIENDS 

27 

father  and  mother,  and  a 
good  girl  she  was.  Well,  he 
had  given  her  the  last  Sacra- 
ments and  was  leaving  her 
when  she  caught  at  his  skirt. 
‘ God  can  do  more  than  that 
for  me,’  she  says.  4 If  you 
believe  it  stand  up  and  help 
your  parents,’  he  said,  hold- 
ing out  his  hand  to  her.  She 
stood  up,  sound  in  life  and 
limb,  and  lived  to  be  an  old 
woman.  There  was  a little 
boy,  a cripple,  at  Kilcrea,  and 
one  day  he  sat  on  a ditch 
overlooking  a field  where 
there  was  a hurling  match. 
He  was  very  sad  because  he 
could  never  play  at  hurley. 
There  were  two  men  playing 
and  one  cursed  the  other. 
The  little  cripple  on  the  ditch 

28 

A LITTLE  BOOK  FOR 

rebuked  the  curser  for  the 
honour  of  God.  Now,  while 
this  was  happening,  there 
came  by  Father  O’Brien. 
4 Why  aren’t  you  hurling, 
boy  ? ’ he  asked.  The  boy 
pointed  to  his  crooked  limb 
for  answer.  4 Go  and  play,’ 
said  Father  O’Brien, 4 go  and 
play.’  That  was  all,  but  the 
little  cripple  jumped  from  the 
ditch,  ran  into  the  field,  and 
joined  the  play,  using  his 
crutch  for  a caman. 

44  Those  were  the  penal 
days,  and  it  was  not  easy  for 
a priest  to  live  at  all  with  a 
price  on  his  head.  But  there 
were  good  Protestants  who 
said  it  was  hard  that  people 
shouldn’t  be  allowed  their 
own  creed  and  their  own 

JOHN  O’MAHONY’S  FRIENDS 

29 

minister,  and  it  was  in  and 
out  of  their  houses  Father 
O’Brien  lived.  It  was  at  the 
fairs  he  used  to  meet  his 
people,  and  move  about 
among  them  as  a drover, 
finding  out  when  marriages 
were  called  for  or  christen- 
ings, and  giving  word  of  the 
place  where  the  Mass  was  to 
be  said.  Well,  a scoundrel 

named  R made  a plot 

to  seize  and  betray  Father 
O’Brien.  The  family  is 
known  and  disrespected  in 
Cork  to  this  day.  He  got 
half  a dozen  scoundrels  to 
assist  him,  and  they  joined 
the  priest  as  he  was  leaving 
the  fair  of  Ballinhassig  and 
entered  into  conversation 
with  him.  Now,  they  had  to 

30 

A LITTLE  BOOK  FOR 

cross  the  Lee  at  a certain 
point  by  stepping-stones,  and 

midway  the  stream  R 

tripped  Father  O’Brien,  and 
he  fell  and  lay  in  the  stream. 
And  all  the  time  he  was  car- 
rying the  Sacred  Host  in  his 
breast . Well,  they  tied  him 
-up,  and  then  and  there  took 
him  to  the  house  of  a gentle- 
man named  Gill  man,  who 
was  a magistrate,  or  what- 
ever corresponded  to  it  in 
those  days.  He  was  one  of 
the  good  Protestants,  and 
when  the  scoundrels  had 
taken  themselves  off  he  gave 
Father  O’Brien  his  liberty. 
Of  the  men  who  had  betrayed 
him  all  died  violent  deaths 
within  a few  years,  except 
old  R , and  he  lived  and 

JOHN  O’MAHONY’S  FRIENDS 

31 

apparently  thrived.  But  in 
his  old  age  he  was  following 
a fox-hunt,  and  he  was  seen 
hard  after  the  fox  crossing 
the  hill  of  Garvagh.  Well, 
it  might  as  well  have  been  a 
hill  into  the  other  world  ; for, 
after  he  had  topped  it,  tale 
or  tidings  of  him  no  man 
ever  heard.  His  horse  was 
found  drowned  some  time 
after,  just  floating  out  of  the 
river  to  the  sea. 

“ I could  tell  you  scores  of 
such  things.  It  ’s  a thou- 
sand pities  you  haven’t  the 
Irish.  The  Munster  peas- 
ants are  full  of  stories,  not 
only  of  Christ  and  the  saints, 
but  of  heroes  and  chieftains. 
Did  you  ever  hear  that  Hugh 

32 

A LITTLE  BOOK  FOR 

O’Neill  only  said  two  tender 
things  in  all  his  life  of  hard 
fighting  ? One  was  to  his 
wife,  Mabel  Bagnal,  the  other 
was  to  Hugh  O’Donnell.  It 
was  at  the  Battle  of  Kinsale. 
Over  all  the  roar  and  tumult 
of  the  battle  the  old  chieftain 
could  be  heard  calling  to  the 
young  one,  who  was  flashing 
through  the  battle  like  a 
brand,  4 Thororn-na-cha , 
Aodh  ! Thororn-na-cha  ! ’ 
which  is,  4 Keep  close  to  me, 
Hugh ! Keep  close  to  me, 
Hugh  ! ’ Then  there  was  a 
grand  man,  Donal  the  Bas- 
tard, of  whom  I have  many 
stories.  But  I will  tell  you 
those  another  day.” 

“ Write  them  down,”  I 

JOHN  O’MAHONY’S  FRIENDS 

33 

used  to  say,  “ write  them 
down.”  But  he  was  not  much 
good  at  writing  down,  and 
he  was  ready  to  give  his  sto- 
ries away  to  anyone  who 
wanted  them,  although  at  the 
back  of  his  mind  he  had  the 
intention  always  of  writing 
some  day.  Indeed,  he  began 
a novel  or  two  and  laid  them 
aside.  There  was  nothing 
he  possessed  he  would  not 
give  away.  You  had  only  to 
tell  him  that  you  had  an  or- 
der for  a story  and  could  not 
find  a plot,  an  occasion  for 
an  article  and  could  not  find 
a subject,  and  he  was  thought- 
ful for  a moment.  Then  he 
would  give  you  his  plot  or 
his  subject.  Perhaps  one 
part  of  the  truth  about  him 

34 

A LITTLE  BOOK  FOR 

was  that  he  could  not  write 
for  money.  In  his  College 
days  he  shouldered  the  ed- 
itorship and  practically  all 
the  work  of  an  archaeological 
journal  which  brought  him 
little  fame  and  no  fortune  — 
only  he  loved  doing  it. 
Later,  when  he  was  on  Cir- 
cuit — solicitors  clamouring 
for  him  — he  would  find  time 
to  write  long  letters,  full  of 
stories ; now  and  again  a 
folk-story  or  a legend. 

“ You  should  weave  it  into 
a ballad,  the  story  of  St.  Gob- 
net,  the  little  patroness  of 
Ballyvourney,  after  whom  so 
many  County  Cork  girls  are 
called.  It  is  Englished, 
‘ Abby.’  She  was  a sea- 
king’s  daughter  and  he  was 

JOHN  O’MAHONY’S  FRIENDS 

35 

a shrine-robber.  She  had  no 
sisters  or  mother,  and  used 
to  keep  to  the  ship  with  him 
and  his  men.  Once  she  was 
ashore  in  a wood  and  God 
sent  an  angel  to  tell  her  to 
fly  from  her  father,  and  to 
give  her  life  to  Himself. 
Well,  she  would,  but  she 
knew  of  no  place  of  security. 
The  angel  told  her  to  travel 
and  give  no  rest  to  the  sole 
of  her  foot  until  she  would 
find  nine  white  deer  asleep. 
She  went  on  and  she  came 
to  a place  and  found  three . 
She  fondled  them  a while  and 
then  went  on  to  Kilgobnet, 
where  she  found  six . Here 
she  stayed  until  they  were  all 
good  friends.  Then  she  left 
her  heart  with  them  and  went 

36 

A LITTLE  BOOK  FOR 

on  to  Ballyvourney.  There, 
as  God  willed  it,  she  found 
the  nine , and  she  made  her 
dwelling  with  them  and  they 
became  her  sisters,  and  she 
died  in  their  midst  and  is 
buried  there.” 

Everywhere  he  went  he 
met  with  the  most  delicious 
adventures.  “ Wherever  he 
goes,  something  is  bound  to 
happen,”  said  one  who  pre- 
ceded him  into  the  shadows. 
Indeed,  all  life  conspired  to 
make  mirth  and  adventure 
for  him. 

For  some  two  years  before 
his  death  he  suffered  greatly, 
but  put  his  sufferings  out  of 
sight.  A superhuman  cour- 
age enabled  him  to  keep  the 
signs  and  portents  of  those 

JOHN  O’MAHONY’S  FRIENDS 

37 

years  from  the  one  who  loved 
him  best.  He  was  ordered 
rest,  rest,  rest  — an  impossi- 
ble prescription  to  him. 
“ Sure,  he  wouldn’t  take  care 
of  himself,”  said  a homely 
lover  of  his  since,  “ and  who 
could  blame  him  ? I hear 
that  when  he  came  out  of 
Court  there  was  a row  of  cars 
waiting  for  him,  and  the 
people  fighting  for  who ’d 
have  him.”  Probably  there 
was  some  truth  in  the  pic- 
turesque statement.  He  was 
the  best  and  gayest  company 
in  all  the  world.  On  Circuit 
he  was  always  called  up  to 
the  Judges’  table.  He  could 
be  as  audacious  as  he  liked 
with  the  big  men  of  his  own 
or  another  profession.  He 

38 

A LITTLE  BOOK  FOR 

only  provoked  smiles  and 
honest  laughter  wherever  he 
went. 

He  used  to  come  in  bub- 
bling over  with  stories.  In 
the  midst  of  them  a heart 
spasm  would  seize  him,  and 
he  would  sink  on  a chair  and 
turn  his  face  away.  As  soon 
as  it  had  gone  by  he  would 
begin  anew.  He  could  not 
but  laugh  and  make  others 
laugh,  even  between  one 
heart  spasm  and  another. 

At  this  time  as  always  he 
was  giving  away  with  both 
hands.  He  had  the  most 
beautiful  generosity,  and  to 
need  money  was  the  passport 
to  his  purse.  He  had  the 
curious  local  patriotism  which 
belongs  to  Cork  men  only 

JOHN  O’MAHONY’s  FRIENDS 

39 

out  of  all  Ireland  — why,  let 
the  student  of  history  ex- 
plain— and  every  Cork  man 
was  his  brother,  in  a more 
special  way  than  that  which 
made  every  poor  devil  his 
brother.  He  knew  to  the 
full  the  exquisiteness  of  giv- 
ing. The  study  he  would 
have  thought  least  worth 
while  would  have  been  the 
study  of  finance.  All  sorts 
of  poor  devils  were  helped 
on  by  his  bounty.  Since  his 
death  the  most  hopeless, 
helpless,  pushed-to-the-wall 
waiter,  incapable  of  waiting, 
met  me  with  a watery  eye  in 
a Dublin  hotel. 

“I  saw  you  with  — him,” 
he  said,  “ Ah  sure,  he  was 
a terrible  loss  to  me.  I ’d 

40 

A LITTLE  BOOK  FOR 

never  have  kept  goin’  only 
for  him.  And  sure  we  ’re 
down  in  the  dirt,  myself  and 
the  wife  and  childher  since 
he  was  taken.” 

“Listen,  sir,”  said  a Dub- 
lin carman  when  he  lay  dy- 
ing, hailing  a friend  of  his  — 
“ how  is  he  ? ” 

“He  could  hardly  be 
worse  and  live.” 

“ Ah,  well,  may  the  bless- 
ing of  God  go  with  him  ! I 
wouldn’t  have  a horse  and 
car  to-day  only  for  him.” 

“ Tell  me  now,”  the  friend 
said  curiously,  “did  he  help 
you  to  buy  back  the  horse  or 
the  car  ? ” 

“ Well,  indeed,  sir,  to  tell 
you  the  truth,  he  put  a bit  of 
money  into  both  for  me  — 

JOHN  o’mAHONY’S  FRIENDS 

4i 

may  the  Lord  reward  him  ! ” 
One  always  knew  where 
he  was  by  the  milestones  of 
his  gifts.  When  a basket 
full  of  speckled  silver  trout, 
or  a little  barrel  of  oysters 
from  the  Atlantic,  or  a little 
jar  of  whisky  arrived  by  the 
parcel  post,  one  always  knew 
by  the  post-mark  just  how 
far  he  had  got  on  Circuit. 
One  laughed  then,  tenderly 
affectionate,  over  those  late 
nights  of  long  ago,  when  he 
would  come  sliding  in  in  the 
small  hours  and  disarm  your 
righteous  indignation  by  a 
present  put  into  your  hand 
before  the  cool  and  cutting 
speeches  you  had  prepared 
could  begin  to  be  uttered. 

42 

A LITTLE  BOOK  FOR 

While  he  lay  dying  briefs 
rained  upon  his  bed,  with 
gifts,  for  everyone  loved  him, 
and  the  carriages  of  the 
Judges  stood  outside  his  door. 
They  sent  him  comfortable 
messages.  He  was  to  take 
time  to  get  well.  No  matter 
what  happened  he  would  be 
looked  after.  One  of  the 
hardest-headed  men  in  all 
Ireland,  the  most  implacable 
of  enemies,  but  soft-hearted 
somewhere  out  of  sight,  came 
in  mysteriously  in  the  dusk 
of  the  evening,  and  left  a 
banknote  for  a large  amount 
on  his  bed.  “ The  other  fel- 
lows quarrel  over  who  will 
devil  for  me,”  he  wrote  in  his 
last  letter,  “ and  toss  me  over 
the  guineas  with  a laugh.” 

JOHN  o’mAHONY’s  FRIENDS 

43 

“ The  little  nurse  who ’s  look- 
ing after  me,”  he  wrote, 
“ woke  me  out  of  a most 
beautiful  sleep  last  night 
to  give  me  my  sleeping 
draught.,, 

During  the  last  month  he 
had  terrible  attacks  of  heart- 
failure  in  which  he  seemed  to 
die  only  to  rally  amazingly. 
Between  the  attacks  he  was 
writing  to  the  clamouring  so- 
licitors that  he  hoped  to  be 
back  at  work  in  a week,  in 
ten  days.  He  was  lying  at  a 
seaside  hotel  where  they  had 
sent  him,  in  the  hope  that  he 
might  sleep,  the  one  chance 
for  him.  The  dispensary 
doctor  who  was  called  up  in 
the  bitter  November  nights, 
and  would  come  running 

44 

A LITTLE  BOOK  FOR 

through  the  village  dressing 
himself  as  he  ran  — the  Dub- 
lin specialist  whose  motor- 
car would  come  whizzing 
almost  as  soon  as  he  had 
been  rung  up  on  the  tele- 
phone — they  fought  death 
hand  to  hand  for  him,  for 
love.  Neither  would  accept 
money  for  their  services. 
They  are  splendidly  Quixotic, 
those  Irish  doctors. 

Just  the  last  day  he  had  to 
live,  when  he  seemed  better, 
he  was  heard  saying  over  to 
himself  the  verses  of  the  Dies 
Irce , muttering  between, 

“ What  a coward  I am ! 
What  a coward  I am  ! ” He, 
that  had  fought  pain  and 
death  with  such  superb  cour- 
age, never  crying  out,  never 

JOHN  O’MAHONY’S  FRIENDS 

45 

complaining,  through  the 
immense  suffering. 

“ I never  saw  men  crying 
openly  as  they  did  at  his 
funeral,”  someone  wrote. 
“ Everyone  was  crying.” 
Indeed,  people  cry  yet  at  his 
grave,  his  grave  in  the  village 
street  below  the  mountains, 
the  street  which  he  used  to 
trudge  so  cheerfully  in  the 
nights  and  the  bad  weather. 
His  grave  is  never  alone.  He 
was  generous  and  friendly 
indiscriminately  to  the  just 
and  the  unjust.  “ The  beg- 
gars loved  him,”  someone 
said,  “ and  there ’s  always  a 
beggar  praying  by  his  grave.” 
The  last  time  I was  there  a 
friend  of  his  who  was  visiting 
the  grave  suddenly  burst  into 

46 

A LITTLE  BOOK 

tears,  and  apologised  for  his 
weakness.  “ It  was  seeing 
the  crocuses  coming  up  above 
him,”  he  said;  “I  couldn’t 
bear  to  see  them,  realising 
that  he ’d  never  return.” 

He  knew  everybody  be- 
tween the  four  seas  of  Ire- 
land, and  was  friendly  with 
them  all.  Between  the  four 
seas  was  lamentation  when 
he  died.  Love  covers  his 
grave  like  roses. 

TO  THE  BELOVED 
DEAD 


ou  Light  of  Laugh- 
ter happiest, 

In  the  old  times 
what  joy,  what  jest ! 

But  now  the  times  are  sad 
and  new, 

And  all  our  laughter  gone 
with  you. 

The  old  times  were  ever  the 
best. 

You  were  as  wild  as  the  West 
Wind, 

The  West  Wind  that ’s  wild 
and  kind. 


48 

TO  THE  BELOVED  DEAD 

Nothing  could  bind  you, 
nothing  keep. 

You  are  gone  over  the  hills 
of  sleep. 

Be  free,  beloved,  as  the  West 
Wind. 

You  gave  with  both  hands 
over  and  over, 

And  every  poor  man  was  your 
lover. 

Who  ever  turned  from  you 
unfed, 

Heavy-hearted,  uncom- 
forted ? 

May  God  repay  you  over  and 
over ! 

O Light  of  Youth,  ’tis  well 
you  go 

Before  the  winter  and  the 
snow ; 

TO  THE  BELOVED  DEAD 

49 

For  who  could  think  of 
you,  a mourner, 

An  old  man  in  a chimney 
corner, 

Quiet  and  glad  of  rest  ? Ah, 
no  ! 

You  Light  of  Laughter,  wild 
and  giving, 

Who  could  wish  you  sad 
length  of  living  ? 

But  all  our  laughter  goes 
with  you, 

You  and  the  Morning  and 
the  dew. 

’Tis  a sad  world  of  care  and 
grieving. 

THE  VOICES 

know  now  what  I 
did  not  know, 
The  trouble  in  the 
wind  and  rain 

That  all  night  long  sigh  and 
complain. 

All  night  in  the  lonely  night 

The  Voices  spake  to  one 
another, 

Voice  of  the  Rain  and  Wind 
her  brother. 

Ah ! what  a world  where 
youth  must  die ! 

Wind  and  Rain  went  crying 
and  grieving ; 

Half  for  the  dead  and  half 
for  the  living. 

THE  VOICES 

SI 

When  I was  young  I did  not 
know 

What  the  Wind  cried  in  the 
rainy  weather, 

The  Wind  and  the  Rain  cry- 
ing together. 

THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

e left  so  little,  did 

He  had  so  brief  a 
time  to  stay, 

’Twas  hardly  worth  his  while 
to  gather 

Dross  of  our  little  earthly  day. 

The  things  that  other  people 
prize 

He  gave  to  others,  being  wise, 

Being  so  heavenly-foolish 
rather, 

That  kept  his  gains  for  Par- 
adise. 

Hardly  a keepsake  did  he 
leave, 

And  all  his  gold  was  fugitive. 

THE  SPENDTHRIFT 


53 


He  kept  those  things  that 
will  not  perish, 

For  him  the  widow  and  or- 
phan grieve. 

He  gave  with  a light  laugh 
indeed, 

As  he  and  gold  were  ill 
agreed ; 

Held  it  the  poorest  thing  to 
cherish, 

Save  that  it  filled  another’s 
need. 

He  had  his  Pilgrim’s  Scrip 
of  Hope, 

And  Living  Waters  in  his 
cup, 

The  Staff  of  Faith  that  still 
suffices 

The  stumbling  soul  to  lift  it 
up. 


54 

THE  SPENDTHRIFT 

Being  so  soon  a traveller, 

Of  earthly  things  he  had  no 
care  ; 

But  on  the  road  that ’s  Par- 
adise^ 

He  went  the  lighter,  being 
bare. 

NEW  YEAR’S  EVE 

ime  was  we  trusted 
the  New  Year 
Old  Year’s 
wrongs  t’  undo : 

When  you  and  I were  young, 
my  dear, 

And  could  begin  anew. 

We  said  : “ The  old  trouble ’s 
at  an  end, 

The  good  times  lie  before 
Now  we  have  griefs  no  year 
will  mend, 

And  an  unopening  door. 

We  shall  not  run  to  greet  the 
year, 

Nor  feel  our  hearts  leap  up 

56 

NEW  YEAR’S  EVE 

With  the  old  happy  hope, 
my  dear ; 

The  fond,  irrational  hope. 

The  year  will  bring  the  birds 
and  flowers, 

The  ripening  sun  and  rain  : 
Never  an  hour  of  all  her 
hours 

Will  bring  the  dead  again. 

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